For those that celebrate Thanksgiving, I’d like to wish everyone a joyous day filled with family and close friends.
My day started early—early enough that even the sun asked for five more minutes—running last minute errands so I could make my famous banana pudding. Famous, at least, in my kitchen. Made from scratch, layered with love, patience, and just the right amount of “don’t look at it too long or it won’t set.” It’s a simple recipe really, but it’s oh-so good… if you like banana pudding, that is. If you don’t, we can still be friends, but I might silently judge your dessert choices.
Today, my family is gathering at my brother’s new home to celebrate with my other siblings, my parents, and enough side dishes to feed a small frontier town. And by the way—if you’ve been keeping up with the family chronicles—Mom is back home and doing much better. The prayers, check-ins, and coordinated sibling scheduling actually worked. Thanksgiving miracle? I’d like to think so.
I also want to say I’ve been overwhelmed—in the best possible way—by the comments made these past few days about my beloved Clyde. Losing him has been tough, heavier than expected, and quieter than our home has felt in years. The love you’ve all shown has lifted that a little. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy days to read about Clyde and send your condolences. It means more than you know. The internet can be a strange place sometimes, but every now and then it shows up with a casserole of comfort and a hug in comment form.
Clyde left a legacy of routine faucet drinks, shower supervision, quiet companionship, and unconditional loyalty. And while today is about gratitude, family, and pudding prestige—I’d be lying if I didn’t admit part of my thankful list is that I got to love a buddy like him for as long as I did.
So from our family to yours: May your turkey be tender, your pudding be perfectly layered, and your moments together be long-lasting. And if you happen to be eating banana pudding today—well then, you’re clearly doing it right.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends. I truly appreciate you all.
It’s been a little over a week since my wife and I said goodbye to our little buddy Clyde — and even now, it still doesn’t feel real. The house is quieter. Our routines feel incomplete. And the space he once filled in our daily lives has become an unmistakable emptiness we carry with us everywhere we go.
Losing a pet isn’t just losing an animal. It’s losing a tiny familiar heartbeat that anchored your mornings, evenings, and even the simplest moments in between. Clyde didn’t just live with us — he lived in us. And that is why the silence left behind is so loud.
The Questions That Follow Loss
Grief invites doubt to the table whether you want it or not. In the days since losing Clyde, I’ve replayed memories and asked myself the kind of questions only guilt-ridden love can produce.
Did I fail him by not rushing him to the vet that morning when I knew he felt off? Could a vet have even helped him, or was his final moment simply his time, no matter where we stood when it came?
And then, unfairly, I asked myself even bigger questions.
Did we deprive him by loving him indoors his entire life? Should we have forced adventure on a cat who once sprinted away from his own reflection? Did we rob him of butterfly chases and bird pursuits, even though the world outside the glass clearly felt too vast for his brave-but-tiny soul?
The hardest twist of all is this:
Now that he’s gone, Clyde rests outside in the very outdoors he avoided his whole life. His body lies in the earth, a couple of feet underground, beneath open sky he never trusted long enough to explore. And somehow, that irony stung deeper than the loss itself.
But grief has a way of writing stories backward. We judge ourselves not on what a life asked for, but on what it might have wanted if it had been someone else’s.
The Challenge We Loved Through
The older Clyde got, the more life asked of him — and of us.
He developed heart problems and thyroid issues that, if left untreated, triggered seizures. He depended on daily medication. Three pills a day, one so bitter it had to be hidden in a capsule like contraband medicine you smuggle past a taste border.
My wife, endlessly patient and unshakably devoted, became his pharmacist, caretaker, and protector. She never missed a dose. Not once.
As arthritis stole his ability to handle stairs, we improvised with litter boxes everywhere upstairs… which Clyde promptly judged as unacceptable. His counter-proposal? Our bed. Repeatedly. His negotiations included tarp treaties, blanket peace accords, and enough towels to open a small linen kiosk.
Deep sleep brought bladder leaks. Mobility struggles required strategic towel placement. Planning ahead became second nature. Laundry day became every day. And love translated into accommodation after accommodation.
Yes, Clyde was a challenge. But challenges don’t leave holes this big — connection without conditions does.
We didn’t put up with him. We adapted for him. Because loving him was never the question. Protecting his comfort was the answer.
The One Time He Went “Outside”
One memory has surfaced more than any other this week.
Years ago, my wife and I sat on the front porch enjoying the evening when I noticed Clyde inside, parked at the glass door like a museum curator observing a world exhibit titled “Nope.”
I opened the door, fully expecting him to reconsider.
He stepped onto the porch as if crossing an international border without a passport. Cautious. Curious. Politely concerned. He sniffed around like an overworked detective suspecting a plot but gradually accepting the peace of the moment.
And then — overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of everything existing simultaneously — he retreated indoors at high speed.
Because that was Clyde.
Brave in pixels. Overstimulated in 3D.
He didn’t want the outdoors. He wanted the safety of observation. The comfort of closeness. The reassurance of familiar floors, predictable humans, and climate-controlled affection.
And we gave him exactly that.
The Truth Beneath the Guilt
Here is what I finally realized once the guilt’s microphone ran out of batteries:
Clyde wasn’t an adventure cat. He was a heart cat. A soulmate with paws. A small emotional support mammal who didn’t read self-help books, but did master deep listening through silence and presence.
We didn’t confine him. We protected his peace.
And maybe the real guilt isn’t about the outdoors he missed.
Maybe it’s about the world not getting more time with the little cat who quietly made ours better.
We miss you, buddy. More than you ever would have understood. And exactly as much as you deserved.
I knew it was only a matter of time before I ended up in the hospital again. This makes the third time since January. This time it was a little more serious than all the others.
I went and saw my cardiologist this past Wednesday and it was decided that because my breathing was so bad he would admit me to the hospital for a heart cath. I was under the impression that the procedure would be done Wednesday afternoon after i was admitted but all they did was blood work. The next morning a heart cath was performed where they found the left artery 75% blocked. Two stents were installed and I just knew that would help my breathing. It did not help at all.
After returning to my room I started talking to my cardiologist and he informed me that he had called a pulmonologist in to see me. A little while later I got carted off for several tests in which one was a breathing test and the other was a sniffing test. Both of which I failed. The pulmonologist came in later Thursday evening and basically told me that after seeing the results he had no idea what was causing my difficulties. All he could tell me was that my diaphragm wasn’t working.
Friday morning I was carted off again for a CAT scan of my lungs. After returning to my room I was told that I would have a procedure known as a Thoracentesis, a procedure to remove fluid around my lungs. At 2pm they removed 2 liters of fluid off my right lung. I was told that the procedure wouldn’t be painful. They lied. I sort of reminded me of my bone marrow biopsy. Maybe it was the way they did it but it was in the top ten as far as pain.
I never got to comfortable last night because of the pain but as long as I stayed still it didn’t bother me too bad. I had to hook up my CPap tonight and the pain was still there. I’ll be taking some pain meds tonight before going to bed.
My daily medicine count has increased by five. That makes 17 pills that I have to take on a daily basis. As long as they keep me alive and my insurance holds up I’ll keep taking them.
This year has got to be the worst year so far as far as my health is concerned. I’ve already been hospitalized twice this year and another visit is just around the corner. This month alone I’ve been to a doctor five times for tests and other examinations.
Since my bout with pneumonia back in May, my breathing has gotten worse. So much so that I can’t walk any distance or do any type of work without gasping for a breath. Even sitting here typing this my breathing is labored. I had a nuclear stress test last week as well as an ultrasound of my heart and both tests have come back without any abnormalities. My regular doctor is supposed to be setting up an appointment with a cardiologist hopefully one day next week for a follow up.
I long for the day I’m able to walk down the hallways at work or hop on my bicycle for a twenty mile ride without feeling like crap.
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